If I Win Your Heart
by startraveller776
Summary: A collection of ficlets and one shots featuring the pairing of Emma Swan and Killian Jones, each written for prompts I received on Tumblr. Various genres. Ratings and applicable warnings in each chapter.
1. the savior takes a sick day

**IMPORTANT:** These are a series of _unrelated_ drabbles, ficlets, and one shots that all feature the pairing of Emma Swan and Killian Jones.

**Summary:** Emma has come down with something unthinkable: a cold.  
**Rating:** PG/K  
**Genre:** Fluff, Canon Compliant (early season 4A)

**A/N:** Written for winterbaby89 who requested: "Since I'm sick, my prompt is not so much a specific prompt, but a feeling... I would love to see you do a feel good warm and fuzzy cs fic/ficlet. Please and thank you."

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**the savior takes a sick day (and a pirate plays nurse)**

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Shouldn't there be some law that states if you're saddled with the job of being the Savior then you get a kick-ass immune system to go with all the ass kicking you're forced to do on a regular basis? As Emma crawls out of bed feeling fuzzy and stuffy and achy, she decides to add this to the list of complaints she plans to air before whoever is in charge of these things.

She can't be sick today. There's a new baddie in town. She needs to get out there and investigate. To serve and protect. To—

Die. Can she just die right here on the staircase? Sprawl across the risers, forehead on the the cool wood? Yes. Yes, that feels better—if she ignores the corners jabbing into her hip and ribs.

"Emma!"

She knows that voice, doesn't she? Raspy and masculine and British. Except he's not, though she can't remember what Enchanted Forest kingdom he's from. She pulls herself up, or tries to. Her legs are too wobbly. Another attempt and she's upright, leaning on the railing. Hook bounds up the stairs, catching her when she sways forward.

"I'm fine," she croaks in protest. Oh, man. Talking _hurts _. Not just her throat, but her head, her entire body.

"Aye, love," he says in a damned patronizing tone. "Perfectly fine for one teetering on the cusp of death."

"I'm still breathing, aren't I?" She'd congratulate herself on a snappy comeback, considering the cotton stuffing that has replaced her brain, but her words came out stilted and breathless.

She hears other voices, David and Mary Margaret, though she can't quite make out what they're saying; her ears are filled with fluff, too. Then it hits her: what is Hook doing here? Has something happened in town? Is someone injured or—

"Calm down, lass," Hook murmurs. "Nothing's happened. And if it does, the prince can handle it."

Oh, was she talking aloud? He's ushering her up the stairs, and she obeys because she doesn't have the energy to fight him. They reach the landing after what feels like twenty agonizing years, and she's pretty sure she murmurs something about needed a rest. Just a short little one, right here on the floor. Hook rudely won't let her, though. Instead he lifts her into his arms with a grunt. Okay, that's not so bad. Her head fits nicely in the crook of his neck. She can drift off right here.

She wakes again, cocooned in blankets, glass of water on her night stand. There's a hushed conversation happening at the foot of her bed. She only catches a few snippets.

"—my daughter. I should be the one—"

"Don't you have that meeting at the mayor's office with—"

"I'll cancel it."

"Do you think it's wise, considering—"

"I suppose you think _you're _the best one to take care of her?"

"Aye, mate. We can't have the mayor and _both _sheriffs out of commission, can we?"

"Fine, but if anything happens—"

Emma slips into unconsciousness again.

Something cool presses against her forehead and it's bliss. She's so cold. No, hot. No, cold again. She cracks one bleary eye open with a groan and finds Hook sitting beside her on the bed, smoothing the damp cloth on her head.

"Can you sit up?" He laughs when she growls in reply. "Your mother said you needed to drink this tonic for your illness."

She tries to roll over, but he won't let her.

"Come one, love." He encourages her to lift her head, brushes the rim of the medicine cup against her lips. "A little nip and you can sleep your cares away."

"Fat chance of that happening," she mutters, but she drinks.

She loses time again, drifting between sweet oblivion and barely lucid misery. He's at her side every time she stirs, tucking the blankets back around her, changing the cloth on her forehead, dabbing her nose with a tissue, asking her to drink something—water, broth. She comes to once with shivers that rattle her bones, and the mattress dips as an arm pulls her against something warm and solid. She hums in relief and falls back into darkness.

She's in New York, making breakfast while Henry waters the plants. He catches her gaze, flashes a smile and her heart swells. Sometimes it surprises her, how her life has turned out. To go from unwanted child to pregnant juvenile delinquent to this. Even when her job tests her faith in humanity, she still has the bright spots of her son and… She frowns. _And? _

A slice of cooked bacon is pilfered from the plate next to the stove, and she spins, spatula in hand, ready to playfully chastise her son. Her breath catches in her throat when her eyes fall on a bare chest dusted with dark hair. She glances down at the flannel pajama bottoms and then up at the face that isn't supposed to be here.

"Hook?"

He raises a brow with a hint of a smirk, leaning against the counter. "Careful, love. Wouldn't want the lad to overhear things better left in the bedroom." Before she can utter a syllable in confusion, he plants a kiss on her cheek with comfortable familiarity, then takes the plate to the table.

Him being here—that's...wrong. At least, she's pretty sure it is. Right?

"Mom?"

Both Henry and Hook—_Killian_—are staring at her. What was she doing? Oh, right. Breakfast. She shakes her head, smiles, and brings over the pan of scrambled eggs.

Emma's quiet during the meal, listening to Henry explain the project he's got coming up for school. One of his classmates is an artist, and they're going to create a comic about Norse mythology. Killian—it _is _Killian; why had she thought of him as Hook?—regales them with hilarious story about the last family that he took out on one of his "High Seas" tours. He spins a dramatic tale about the young kid who climbed the rigging to the crow's nest, nearly startling Killian's first mate right out of it. He winks at Emma as they laugh.

No, this is right. This _is _her life. They're the Three Musketeers, and she's happier than she ever remembers being.

But the picture starts bleeding at the edges, fading into nothing, and her chest lurches as she desperately tries to hang onto this, to _them _. No, no. Not yet.

Her eyes open to the tawny light of early morning filtering through a nearby window. It's a heartbeat then another before she can make sense of her surroundings. This isn't New York; it's Storybrooke. _This _is home. She doesn't know why she feels a little disappointed. It must be the cold, still lingering in her stuffy nose and raw throat. Her gaze lands on the figure slumbering awkwardly in a chair next to her bed. Relief and the tiniest spark of something else blossoms in the general area of her sternum at the sight of her pirate. No, not hers, she reminds herself.

He's not wearing his long coat, gone too is the hook. With his hair sticking out at odd angles, he looks incredibly human. There's always been something about him that's _more_, though she can't put a name to it. He's a legend come to life, centuries old, and sometimes it's too much for her. In this moment, though, he's just Killian Jones.

As if sensing her scrutiny, he stirs, pale eyes blinking open to meet hers. He leans forward to press the back of his hand against her forehead. "The fever's broken," he says in a voice still graveled by sleep, and she doesn't want to find it as endearing as she does. "Feeling better now?"

She nods. "You didn't have to stay." She almost admits that she's glad he did, but the confession doesn't quite make it past her tongue.

"I did." He gives her that look. The one that would have the power to stop the world if she let him say the words written in his eyes.

She shies away from brink yet again, glad to have a sneeze and a particularly wet sniffle to cover her retreat. "I'm sure I'm looking real kissable right now," she says with a light tone, silently begging him to play along.

He drops his chin briefly, and then he looks at her again with his usual sass and swagger. "Why would you say that, Swan? You're always kissable." He stands, stretching his neck. "Your nursemaid is off to procure you some food. Now, be a good lass and stay in bed."

She's not sure why she grabs his arm before he can walk away, and when he looks back at her, brows furrowed, she fumbles for something to say. "Thank you, Killian."

He holds her gaze for a breath as if he understands that she's not just thanking him for yesterday, for last night, but for his patience. "I'm always at your service, Emma." He bends over and places a soft kiss on her forehead.

She waits until he leaves the room before letting out a sigh. Maybe...maybe she can make a little more space in her world for him.

**~FIN~**

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**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! If you have a minute, tell me what you thought!


	2. 13: Crime

**Summary:** Emma Swan has finally found the only other witness to a strange incident, only the answers he has for her are not ones she likes.  
**Rating:** T  
**Genres:** Alternate Universe, Supernatural

**A/N:** This was written as part of a 100 Prompts challenge. Also, it's very loosely based on the 2007 television series "Blood Ties."

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**13: CRIME**

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Emma brings her hand up and hesitates just shy of rapping her knuckles against the dark mahogany door in front of her. It was surprisingly easily to talk her way past the doorman of this upscale highrise. She only had to say that she was here to see a "Mr. Jones," and the man gave her a brief once over, lips quirking with a knowing smile, before waving her toward the elevator.

Her middle flutters with anticipation, though she knows this is probably a longshot. It's been two weeks since the incident that she can't reconcile with reality, and she's been scouring the city for the only other witness to the event—the mystery man who yanked her from the tracks with inhuman strength seconds before the midnight train whipped by.

"Have you been drinking tonight?" Neal asked when he took her statement a half hour later. Of course the detective who picked up the call for a possible homicide had to have been her ex. "Because you know how you can get sometimes when you've had a little too much."

She gave him the finger and walked away. She would do the investigation herself—despite the lack of evidence and the lack, even, of a body. She saw what she saw.

_The bone-chilling scream from someone in abject terror. She raced down the stairs to follow the horrific sound only to stop at the base by an impossible sight. A man, skin completely blanched, shrieking as his body was bent and twisted by a coal black shadow with searing red eyes. She charged it, only to be whipped violently to the tracks, stars filling her vision as her head banged against a steel railroad tie._

She pushes aside the memory that haunts her dreams, sucks in a deep breath, and knocks, hoping this won't be another dead end.

Seconds lethargically tick by and then finally a deadbolt turns. The door swings open, revealing a man wearing nothing more than heather grey joggers. Emma involuntarily takes in his toned bare chest, dusted with dark hair, before she's able to force her gaze to his face. She's the best P.I. in the city, but her search didn't turn up a single photo of Killian Jones. Not that they'd have been much help anyway. She was only able to capture a glimpse of her rescuer's hooded profile in the pale flickering lights at the station.

Everything in the ridiculously thin file she has on this guy says that he's a reclusive artist with practically no digital footprint. The image she's conjured in her head doesn't match reality, though. At all.

Killian is handsome, almost unnaturally so with onyx hair and stunning blue eyes. By the way he leans against the jamb, mouth splitting in an appreciative grin as his gaze wanders in a languid tour from her head to her boots and back again, she's pretty sure he doesn't have a problem in social settings.

"Hello, love," he says in a baritone that's a hairsbreadth shy of seductive. "You're a day early, but I'm willing to overlook the error, particularly for a beautiful lass such as yourself."

Emma frowns. He's been expecting her? But there's no recognition in his unwavering stare. She reminds herself that he might not even be the one she's been hunting down, but then she sees it. His arm pressed against the doorframe, flexing a well-defined bicep, ends in a stump. An image flashes of a glinting silver hook in place of a hand, and her stomach flips.

He follows her gaze, smile dipping briefly as he pushes off the jamb. "Shall we get started, then?" He backs away, giving her space to enter. When she doesn't move, he adds. "No need to stand upon ceremony, love. Come in." He strides into his apartment without a backward glance as though expecting her to obediently trail after him.

His arrogance puts her off, and her instinct is to head the other direction—right out of the building. But she needs answers. She needs to know she's not crazy. Sucking a deep breath, she reaches into her pocket, fingers gripping a small canister of pepper spray as she crosses the threshold. The door shuts behind her with a soft click.

This place is insanely big, easily five times the size of her one-bedroom apartment, and it looks staged for a feature article on eighteenth century inspired design in Architectural Digest. The antique furniture is in such pristine condition, it'd make an appraiser cry, though Emma couldn't say the proper name for any single piece—except for the drafting table and stool in the corner of the great room. The entire exterior wall is floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city at night. Paintings hang from the other surfaces in ornate, gilded frames.

Her eyes are drawn to one of the smaller pieces, almost hidden between a pair of landscapes at twilight, and she steps forward to get a better look. The image is of a cloaked figure carrying a woman with long, dark hair. She's dressed in a period dress, eyes closed, head lolling back, arm dangling limply. Despite the macabre theme, the piece seems _alive_.

"Since it appears you didn't come in the usual attire of leggings and a sports bra, you can strip down to your knickers."

Killian's voice startles her, and it takes a beat before Emma catches what he said. She turns around to find him opening the doors to a gothic-looking breakfront. He's put on a shirt, a black v-neck tee that hugs the well-defined muscles of his torso.

"We'll start with a few gestures before moving onto longer poses."

Strip down to her knickers? Poses? She stares at him, indignation burning in her cheeks. "Excuse me?"

He glances at her over his shoulder. "You are from the agency, yes?"

"Agency?" She scoffs at the implications. Does this guy actually pay for that kind of thing? "I don't know who you think I am, but I'm not a—"

"Model?" He straightens, holding up a large sketchpad.

Heat rises to her face again for an entirely different reason, and she silently chastises herself for making assumptions. He's a freaking _artist_. She knew that. "I'm not that either."

His eyes narrow a fraction as he looks her over. "Apologies, love. But you can hardly blame me for the mistake." He sets the sketchpad in the cabinet, closes the door, and takes a few steps in her direction. "Shall we try this again? Killian Jones at your service." He gives her a flourishing bow. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss…"

"Emma Swan," she fills in the blank. "Actually, we've met before." It's a stab in the dark; she's still not absolutely certain that it was him who dragged her to safety.

He cocks his head, tongue grazing across his bottom lip. "Oh?"

She makes a noise of agreement, moving toward him. "Two weeks ago," she says, "at Waterfront Station."

He becomes inhumanly still, and though he still wears a smile, it's turned plastic as his eyes bore into her. That's all the confirmation she needs. Whatever plausible lie he's trying to cook up won't hold water with her. She will get the truth out of him.

"Aye, I remember now," he says slowly. "Have you come to offer your undying gratitude?" He winks, rubs his thumb across his mouth in a roguish attempt to play at ignorance, but she sees through the act.

"Thank you but," she says, fishing a business card from her pocket, "I think you know that's not why I'm here." She holds it out to him.

He wets his lips again, dropping his cavalier façade as he takes the rectangle of cardstock from her. He glances down at her information embossed on its surface—Emma Swan, Private Investigator—and then back up at her with a somber expression. "This isn't a road you want to traverse, love."

"I'm not your 'love,' and warnings like that only light a fire under me," she says. "So, why don't you save us both the trouble and tell me what the hell happened that night."

He scrutinizes her with a narrowed gaze for several heartbeats before his features sag in resignation. "As the lady wishes." He steps around her without another word, and she scrambles after him.

"Hey!" she protests. "Where are you going?"

"To get us a drink," he replies with a glance over his shoulders. When she balks, he adds, "You're asking me to introduce you to the creatures that live in the underbelly of the city, lass. Trust me, we're both going to need one."

"Creatures?" she asks with disbelief. "Like what? Vampires and ghouls? You've got to be kidding me. I want a rational explanation not a Bram Stoker novel."

Killian pauses, breathing out a soft, raspy laugh as he turns to face her. "And what might your 'rational explanation' be for this?" His eyes turn inky black and he pulls back his lips to reveal a pair of sharp white canines elongating.

Ice sluices through her veins as she takes an involuntary step back. No. No, her mind has to be playing tricks on her. Or this is an incredibly vivid dream. Or—

"You can believe or not," he says, his irises returning to a shining azure, "but it doesn't make me any less real." He moves toward her, the corners of his mouth curving up in a sardonic grin. "Still want to know what goes bump in the night?"

Her heartbeat is thick and erratic to her ears. She knows she should make a dash for the door, run without looking back. And yet…

And yet, her gut tells her that she's not in any danger—not here. He saved her life when she could have been easy prey for him. And he has the answers she needs. How does that saying go? Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.

She licks her dry lips, squares her shoulders. "I think I'll have that drink now."

His smile grows wider. "I like a tough lass."

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**A/N:** _Thank you so much for reading! If you have a moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts!_


	3. Midnight Storm

**RATING: **PG/K+  
**GENRE: **Canon Compliant, Slice of Life, Domestic  
**SUMMARY: **Emma Jones wakes in the middle of the night to find the other side of the bed empty.

**A/N:** his was written for winterbaby89 who sent me the following prompt: _"We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?"_ This takes place during season 7 with Real!Hook and Emma.

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**MIDNIGHT STORM**

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A crash of thunder startles Emma awake, and her hand instinctively stretches to the other side of the bed. When her fingers meet only a tangle of sheets, still warm from the body that should be there, she blinks open bleary eyes.

"Killian?" she whispers as a flash of lightning cuts through the darkness.

There's no answer, and she pushes herself upright. She says his name again, and again she's met with silence. Thunder booms, and the little one in her swollen belly jumps at the sound. She does her best to soothe the baby growing inside of her.

It's so different this time—bringing life into the world. With Henry, she'd been so distraught, so broken. Each kick of his tiny legs was a reminder of his father, the man who had held her delicate dreams in his hands and obliterated them. She couldn't bring herself to know the baby, to cobble together a new hope for a brighter future because there was none. Not for an imprisoned teen. The kid was better off without her.

But now she wishes she could have cherished every stretch, every time his foot pushed against her ribs. She wishes that she'd wanted him then with the same fervor that she wants his little sister. She's grateful for the years she's had with her son, grateful that he'd sought her out as a precocious eleven-year-old, but it wasn't enough time. He grew up too fast, and the house seems empty without him.

It's particularly empty now as she pads through it, searching for her other love. Lightning sparks through the bay windows downstairs, and she finally catches a glimpse of her husband. Shaking her head with a soft curse, she grabs a coat and heads outside.

Killian stands in the yard, head tipped up and eyes closed as rain falls on him in fat, angry drops. His pajama bottoms are drenched, clinging to his legs. Emma yells his name, but it's swallowed by another crack of thunder. She curses again, slogging through the marshy grass to grab his hand.

He looks at her then, eyes painted cerulean by a flare of brilliant light. She hopes their little girl inherits them. His brows drawn downward in confusion.

"Emma," he says over the din. "What are you doing? You'll catch your death!"

"I could ask you the same question," she returns.

He glances away and up as the night sky grumbles once more. He's somewhere else for a beat, gaze unfocused, and she knows better than to push him. She may have a lot of baggage that she's still unpacking, but what he carries spans centuries and could fill the cargo hold of his ship.

He blows out a sigh, fingers gripping the coat that won't zip over her stomach anymore, and pulls her toward the house. "You need to get out of the storm, love."

"Aye, aye, Captain." She gives him a sarcastic salute as he drags her inside, and she's rewarded with a glower. Good. He's with her again.

Later, after they've changed into dry things, her damp hair pulled up into a knot, he holds her against him in bed, her back to his chest, as he strokes her belly. The storm has moved on, thunder a distant echo, the rain a gentle patter against the roof. She's almost lulled back into sleep when Killian speaks in a hushed voice.

"There's no hiding from nature's wrath on the seas," he says. "It's all hands on deck until the worst of it passes. A sailor learns not to fear the elements."

"And a pirate doesn't fear anything," she quips around a yawn.

"Aye, love." She can hear the smile in his voice. "I came to find a good squall rather invigorating."

Silence stretches between them, and she swallows back a question. Because what she saw in the yard wasn't a man reveling in the downpour, but one hoping somehow to cleanse his soul.

"My father was a selfish bastard," he goes on quietly, "and I never wanted to chance passing that legacy on by having children. Not until..." he trails off, but she can fill in the blank. Not until Milah. Not until Baelfire.

"And after," Killian says, "revenge was was my only guiding star. A family wasn't meant for the likes of me." There's an ache in his tone, a ghost of the former villain who struggled to believe he could ever deserve a happy ending.

With effort, Emma turns to face him, hand going to his stubbly cheek. "Hey," she murmurs. "You have a family. You've been a great father to Henry."

Killian gives her a smile, but it's tinged with melancholy. "I know, love, but he was already a good lad. This—" he gives her belly another reverent caress, "—is different."

She nods because she gets it. Henry was half-grown when he came to her. He taught her how to be a good mother, and now she's facing the real test, starting from scratch—this time with a partner by her side. "I'm scared too," she confesses. "But we'll face this together like we do everything else."

She leans forward and gives Killian a gentle kiss. "Besides, we have Snow and David close by to help out. They seem to be doing a pretty good job with my brother."

Killian breathes a raspy laugh, and she knows that he's okay. They stay like this for a minute or two, foreheads pressed together. It's comfortable. _Safe._ And she hopes she never gets so used to it that she takes this for granted.

He wraps his arms around her, nudges her to him until her head is on his chest. "I love you, Emma," he whispers.

"I love you too."

**~FIN~**

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**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! If you have a moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts! XD


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